


Bleak Midwinter

by Elfbert



Series: Battles [2]
Category: Rawhide (TV)
Genre: American Civil War, But not too sad, Christmas, M/M, Pre-Series, Sad Christmas, Soldiers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 12:05:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13146351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfbert/pseuds/Elfbert
Summary: Gil Favor and Pete Nolan make the best of what little they have during the war at Christmas.





	Bleak Midwinter

There were plenty of soldiers who appreciated the winter months - for a time, at least. The chance to rest. To build a more solid shelter than their usual flimsy canvas.

The chance to wake up in the morning without worrying you might not survive until bedtime.

Gil Favor wasn’t one of them.

He sat, hunched as far under an old tree stump as he could, and waited.

His fingers were cold, stuffed into his armpits. His rifle rested against his neck.

He listened.

The snow was falling steadily now, and he could only see a short distance. But he still watched, eyes constantly raking the area below him.

Finally there was movement. A shadow in the flurries, moving cautiously, silently.

He raised his rifle to his shoulder, pulling the oiled rag from around the mechanism, tucking it into his pocket. His cheek resting on the smooth, cold stock.

For a moment he tracked the movement of the figure. Then he eased the hammer back with his thumb and scanned the area behind the man, finger resting gently on the trigger.

He forced himself to relax. Forced himself to stop shivering. Forced himself to breathe.

 

The figure became more solid, boots squeaking in the snow the only sound of his approach.

Gil didn’t relax. Even when Pete Nolan crouched next to him, joining him in his silent examination of the landscape below them.

“There’s nothing. Snow’ll’ve covered my tracks now. Come on.”

Pete’s hands moved to brush snow from Gil’s shoulders. Strong, steady, reassuring.

“Yeah.” He eased the hammer back down on his weapon, wrapped it back in the oiled rag. Then slung his pack over his shoulder, glancing down to check he’d left nothing behind. No sign he’d been there.

As he stood the snow which had gathered in the folds of his coat fell away.

They walked, a few feet apart, looking back frequently.

As they had done many times before.

Gil glanced across at Pete.

“See much?”

Pete gave a small nod. “Enough.”

“Good.”

Feeling was slowly returning in his toes as they walked, but no matter how long the wait, or what the discomfort, every time Pete returned to him safely it was worth it.

He had long ago accepted that this was their lot. The danger of their task, far from their own side, always pushing the line of just how close they could get the enemy, balanced by the opportunity to work together.

 

They walked for around two miles to where they had left their horses. Mounting up and riding onward, their animals blowing out clouds of condensation as they cantered through the snow. Dawn was still some hours away, and they had to slow, letting their horses pick the way.

The countryside seemed to be as asleep as those who inhabited it.

Hunkered down under a blanket of fresh snow as the two men passed through. The odd oil lamp showing on ranches and in small towns was the only sign that they weren’t completely alone in the world.

No-one, it seemed, wanted to notice or be noticed, even in the lull that winter brought in the war. People more concerned with scratching out a living than risking taking an interest in what was happening around them.

It felt, sometimes, as if the whole world turned its back on them, as they passed by.

Gil envied them that. He wished he could turn his back, too.

 

It was a risk, returning to the place they’d camped the day before. But they felt as if they were far enough from the enemy to have gone undetected.

They were both alert to any signs of disturbance, but the open ground and the small woodland all looked untouched.

To call it a camp was rather exaggerating the situation. But they had taken the time to form a small shelter from branches, and when they slept they draped one of the tarps over it, along with armfuls of snow, for camouflage and insulation.

A small fire was all they risked, screened from view by more branches, dug into a small hole. The warmth wasn’t much help, but it meant they could have a hot meal and coffee.

The snow was falling in a few gentle flakes now, tossed around on the breeze. Dawn was bringing a hint of pink to the sky in the east.

They drank strong, bitter, coffee. Ate some coosh made from their hard tack soaked until it had turned to mush and fried off in bacon grease.

Their rations were poor - tobacco the one thing they ever had plenty of. But they both knew they were lucky to be out on their own so much. They had a far better success rate for foraging than a full battalion ever did, as the men picked the earth clean of anything worth having. And whatever they found was their own, to be eaten or traded as they pleased. 

As the sun rose they huddled down, coats wrapped tight, both blankets over them. It was too cold, and they both shivered, Pete curled up, Gil wrapped around him.

Pete took hold of Gil’s hand where it rested near his chest, wrapping it in his own. Warming the fingers he knew had waited for so many hours, steady on the trigger, ready to protect him.

 

Sleep didn’t come easy to either of them, the cold, and the weak sunshine sending meltwater to rain on their makeshift shelter meant they were both alert to the sounds around them.

They rested, sometimes dozing, until finally Pete got up, ignoring Gil’s mild protests, and built up the fire - taking advantage of the daylight to mask a larger blaze.

He quickly realised that it was definitely colder outside their small shelter than in it, and as soon as the fire was blazing he wriggled back under the blankets, finally getting warmth from both Gil and the flames, and fell asleep.

 

They moved out around noon, after a small meal of peanuts, coffee and some jerky. They destroyed their camp, leaving no trace of having been there apart from some footprints in the snow.

The map had been studied and stowed away again. It was out of date, probably inaccurate. But that was why they carried out the task assigned to them.

 

“Think it’ll stop snowing?” Gil asked.

It was the first time either of them had spoken for hours. They knew each other too well to need many words.

Pete squinted up at the sky, watching the clouds - the heavy, grey clouds of the day before had given way to wisps of white, pulled taught across bright blue. “Yeah. Don’t think we’ll get much more. Probably turn colder.”

Gil hunched down further into his coat. He’d never seen snow, growing up. Heard about it, thought, from the travellers who came by.

The first time he’d ever seen it he was already working, line riding for a ranch, through a cold, lonely winter.

He’d woken one morning to find the world covered in a light dusting of soft, fluffy snow. It was beautiful, and he’d barely noticed the cold as he’d ridden his patch, seeing every tree, every hillside, in a new way. The colour gone, just the stark white and dark shadows - every branch, every plant, a skeleton in the landscape. Soft white blurring the edges, stark black like brutal scratches of ink on a page. Even the animals had seemed amazed. Quiet and docile, as if they were just as in awe as he was.

He’d touched it, tasted it, watched as flakes fell, slow and ponderous from the sky. Seen the tiny ice crystal shapes, each one beautiful, and watched as the brightening sunlight made the world sparkle like crushed glass.

 

He and Pete stopped again after dark, finding a sheltered spot. Their horses were always the hardest thing to conceal, so they never risked camping anywhere too open.

They built up a fire, both rapidly getting cold once they stopped moving.

Gil rubbed down their horses whilst Pete checked the area, then got the coffee pot settled on the stove.

They were running low on rations, and both knew they’d soon have to turn back and find the nearest army camp to restock at. Not everyone was welcoming - they were supposed to be fed by Texas, and other regiments weren’t keen on sharing, never mind they were supposed to be on the same side.

Sometimes the had to stay for a few days, keeping to themselves as they waited for messages from their own commanders.

Neither of them enjoyed it. Sometimes, depending on the command at the camp, they were split up because of their rank. Most officers didn’t mix with the lower ranks.

It had never been a problem for them, though. The first time they’d met, when Gil was still a Lieutenant, he’d made it clear he didn’t care about Pete’s rank, just that he could do the job. He hadn’t been disappointed.

Gil knew that Pete didn’t like that he needed an officer with him - to prevent him getting the idea of deserting, supposedly. But once he’d realised that Gil was no great supporter of army rules and rank he’d settled, and come to appreciate Gil’s patient vigils, ready and waiting, should something go wrong and he be pursued, or even caught.

They’d been so successful at scouting no one questioned them any more. The information small units and scouting parties brought back was invaluable to the army in deciding the path of their campaigns. All that mattered is the information got back, reliably and accurately.

 

The snow did stop, and they huddled together, out of the wind, coats and blankets used to share warmth as best they could.

Gil couldn’t put his finger on when it had started. They had fallen into an easy pattern of working together, splitting the chores, never standing on ceremony. And, somewhere along the way, without either of them really acknowledging it, they had begun sharing more. Cigarettes, coffee. Their bed rolls.

The first time anything had happened had been the winter before. When it was too cold, and in the dead of night, both still awake, they’d looked into each other’s eyes, the warmth of their breath mingling. Intimate. And Pete had moved ever closer, eyes locked, questioning, hesitant, until their lips had touched. Gentle, dry, kisses. Waiting, pausing, and Gil had let his fingers brush Pete’s jawline, and leant in.

They’d both been awkward, nervous, each touch hesitant, unsure of where boundaries lay. Fingers slowly fumbling with buttons, tracing over chest hair. Moving lower. Gaze unbroken. Each waiting for the other to stop the madness. Because they couldn’t be doing this. They shouldn’t. Except no one would ever know. And in that moment, after so many months of trusting each other with their lives, this didn’t seem like such a big step at all.

Hands had stroked over the bulges in their pants, breath hitching, buttons wrestled with and undone, cold fingers finding warm, solid flesh. Kisses deepened. Rough, uncoordinated, pressing against each other, noses and teeth and tongues clashing. No gentle romance. Just urgent need, for human touch. To feel alive. To feel something.

They had both come, slick, messy, panting. And in the awkward moments that followed it seemed neither of them knew what to do.

Then Pete had wiped himself off, offered the handkerchief to Gil. And settled, hand resting on Gil’s chest, head tucked down. Their blankets now warm, blood flowing.

Gil had shifted closer, their legs bumping, and rest his hand on Pete’s hip.

Sleep had come easy for them both, then.

 

They ate. Never enough. Never tasting of much. They knew they didn’t have long before they’d need to move out, begin their work.

Gil drank down two mugs of grainy, strong coffee. They were running out. He knew it was stupid, but the thought of having no coffee was sometimes more terrifying than the army that lay a few short miles away. He knew what running out of coffee did to a man. The headaches, the lack of focus. The chance of making a mistake.

He couldn’t make mistakes.

 

They hid their camp as best they could, provisions hidden, supplies concealed, fire out.

Then rode out, horses lighter, just the bare essentials. Guns, ammunition, water.

Neither of them wore the yellow cap of their uniform any more. Regular hats were far more practical.

As they approached the final climb before their goal they slowed, and found a place to tether their horses.

Gil slid the rifle from its holster, checking it over, then slung it over his shoulder.

They walked in silence, their boots crunching loudly through the ice-encrusted snow, sometimes sinking in up to their calves.

Finally they crouched on the ridge line in the darkness, squinting down at the camp below. It was formed of a large collection of flickering campfires and lamps around some wooden shacks and a number of tents. People were occasionally moving around, shadows in the gloom.

 

The noise of a fiddle being played and some singing floated up, the only sound in the quiet countryside.

Gil looked at Pete, the darkness almost hiding him, even though he was only a foot or so away. 

There was a moon tonight, the silver light reflected in the snow. A delicacy to the tone. An honesty, the snow pure white, pooled with the dark, crisp shadows.

“More’n we thought,” Pete said softly.

Gil nodded.

“Let’s take a look, then.”

They followed a rough path down. Gil took care to tread in Pete’s footprints. No point in leaving any more sign of their passing than needed.

They paused again, near the bottom of the slope, where some longer grasses and small shrubs were clinging to life where the soil had gathered.

Gil’s fingers found Pete’s shoulder.

“Come back to me,” he said, softly. Like he always did.

Pete nodded. Like he always did.

 

Gil settled, rifle on his shoulder, cheek on the smooth, cold, stock. Alert to any change in the shadows. Any movement.

The sound of song and merriment reached his ears. Haunting in the otherwise empty land.

He watched as Pete disappeared into the darkness, sticking to the shadows. Creeping through the snow.

 

He couldn’t help but think of his family. They would be at home, now. Safe. Warm. The house decorated. Probably the scent of cookies and other festive treats still hanging in the air. Spiced. Decadent.

His girls tucked up in bed excited that soon Santa might visit. His wife and her family might be socialising with friends. Polite chit-chat, small glasses of sweet drinks, all the superficial well-wishing that polite company demanded.

It was a life he couldn’t imagine, even though it was rightfully his. Just as they probably couldn’t imagine where he was. Crouched in the cold snow, waiting, willing to take another man’s life, and they his, if it came to it. Willing to kill for a man he’d only met a few short years ago. A man he’d maybe never see again, once this madness was over.

He felt a world away from rich plum puddings and roasted meat and fresh vegetables. Paper decorations made by small fingers, clumsy with excitement.

They’d have a tree, a fir, decorated in candy, paper chains, maybe popping corn threaded into strings. He’d never seen such a thing before his first Christmas in Philadelphia. He’d never seen a lot of things that they found normal. The excess, the extravagance, the luxury.

His mother-in-law was of German descent, and she insisted on the tree. He’d always wondered how they’d ever find such a thing living in the plains. Now he wondered if he’d ever have find out.

He touched his pocket. He’d last received a letter from home weeks before. The basics of home life, written out in his wife’s neat flowing hand. And at the bottom, two more names, one written with the exaggerated neatness of an older child. The ink thick where the pen had been moved slowly, with care. The other straggly, uneven. Spidery ‘x’s trailing off on a downward slope, to signify, it was carefully noted, many kisses Maggie wished him to have.

Somedays he felt guilty. Because whilst he missed them, he’d long since realised that he was more comfortable here - even now, in the middle of war - than he ever would be in a smart parlour in Philadelphia. He’d rather struggle to sleep in the snow, held close by Pete, than struggle to mind his manners and make polite conversation with the never ending stream of visitors at his in-law’s house.

They made no attempt to hide their feelings that he was beneath their daughter, and sometimes he couldn’t help but agree with them.

But the joy of his girls - their excitement, their love, still pulled at his heart. And he knew, once this was over, if he survived, he’d go back, bring them out to Texas. Try to carve out a life for them. Gillian was already a fine rider, and he was sure Maggie would be, too.

He felt as if the wide open plains and the simple, rough life they would lead would somehow be better than the stifling society of the cities back East. You could be who you wanted, out here. Not who everyone else wanted you to be. It might be hard work, but to him it was preferable to them growing up stifled, like his wife had, desperate to escape.

Desperate enough to run into his arms, anyway.

There was movement below, and he brought his rifle up smoothly, stopping and focussing. But it was just a single man, stumbling out of camp, relieving himself in the snow. The cloud of steam from his piss caught in the lamp light.

He sighed.

Caught between two worlds. Even if one of them seemed so far from him it didn’t even seem real. Just a dream. And you couldn’t live in a dream.

He pulled his knitted scarf from his pack and wrapped it around his face. The temperature was slowly dropping again as the night wore on.

 

The revelry below was getting louder. No doubt lubricated with plenty of alcohol. The singing was rising in volume and deteriorating in quality.

He didn’t imagine anyone there would manage to be much of a threat to them, but he still kept a careful watch. He’d never forgive himself if he let his guard down and something did happen.

 

Finally he heard approaching footsteps once more, and readied himself, scanning the edge of the camp, and glancing in the direction of the sound, until he was sure it was Pete, keeping low, moving from shadow to shadow as he approached.

As always, they paused, watching, waiting, before moving off together. No words exchanged.

Gil found he was unable to stop himself reaching out, giving the strong shoulder a gentle squeeze as they walked back up the hill.

Somehow, today - for he was certain it was after midnight, now - it mattered that little bit more.

 

The ride back to their camp was also carried out in silence, stopping every once in a while to watch their trail for any movement. But they were both satisfied that they weren’t going to be followed.

They ate peanuts, drank coffee and chewed on some jerky once they were back in their small camp, huddled in blankets still warm from their horses.

As they settled to sleep, Gil took Pete in his arms, pressed a kiss to his forehead, and gave a small smile as Pete shifted, fingers exploring in the gloom, to kiss him back.

Sentimental, he knew. But he forgave himself for it. There wasn’t much to enjoy any more. He wasn’t going to pretend this wasn’t what mattered.

They settled, the fire glowing, ground cold beneath them. Both tired from their long ride and the tense hours of scouting, so close to their enemy.

 

Gil woke before dawn, limbs stiff, and untangled himself from a grumbling Pete.

He built up the fire a little, and lit a cigarette, putting snow in the coffee pot to melt down, along with the roughly ground beans.

He crouched down by Pete, giving his shoulder a shake.

“Pete. Jus’ goin’ out a while. I’ll be back, okay?”

Pete looked at him, one sleepy eye opening. “Trouble?”

“No.” He ran his fingers through Pete’s wavy hair. “No trouble. Just checking.”

Pete nodded, and wriggled a little closer to the fire.

 

He rode out, horse walking carefully through the snow, which was thicker as he headed up toward the nearby hills.

It was as if he was alone in the world, the thick white blanket pristine. All the details of nature blanked out. Rounded off and softened by the mantle of thick snow.

As he neared a small stand of trees some deer watched him, alert, ready to run. He was glad to see them. They were better look-outs than he was.

Once he’d gone far enough he began examining the snow, walking his horse on slowly. Every few seconds scanning the horizon, before going back to looking at the ground.

Finally he stopped, easing himself out of his saddle. Boot sinking into the snow. He trusted his horse not to move, but still looped the reins around a branch.

He walked a little way, then sat at the base of a tree, watching, waiting, like he was so used to doing.

It wasn’t long before dawn broke, the sky delicate pinks and blues, the last stars twinkles of silvery light. Beautiful. Peaceful. It was almost impossible to imagine that on the earth below thousands of men had fought and died in churned up mud and muck and blood and chaos in the past years. 

And finally there was movement. Gil brought his rifle up, hammer back, ready, waiting. He had one chance. But that was all he ever had, he figured.

He breathed out, smooth, slow, and squeezed the trigger. The rifle kicked into his shoulder. The sound so sudden, so loud, but gone in a moment, soaked up by the soft snow. Birds had leapt from the trees, and circled, calling in distress. Noisy and unrelenting in their panic. His hand moved automatically, pushing the lever, recycling the action, the hot cartridge ejecting and sizzling in the snow at his feet. The hammer back to half-cock. Movements he could do in his sleep.

He kept his gaze steady down the barrel, waiting. Watching. Then moved. Rifle at his side, eyes scanning the horizon, to check his shot hadn’t alerted anyone he need worry about.

The prairie chicken looked peaceful. Colourful against the white snow. As if it were reclined in a soft embrace.

He reached out and picked it up, its head lolling loose in death.

It was warm, feathers soft. He couldn’t help but trace his fingers over them.

He walked back to his horse, mounted up again, the dead bird in his hand, and rode back to Pete.

 

Pete grinned as he approached.

“That you, doing the shooting?” Pete asked.

Gil gave a nod. He should have known Pete’s sharp ears would pick it up.

“Merry Christmas.” He held up the bird.

Pete’s smile was soft, gentle. It lit his eyes and made them crinkle.

“Well, I’ll be…you sure know how to put a smile on a man’s face,” Pete grinned. “There’s coffee. Give me that, I’ll do it.”

Gil drank the hot coffee, savouring the first cup of the day, whilst Pete efficiently plucked the feathers from the bird, burying them before pulling out his knife and neatly butchering the flesh.

He watched Pete working, the confidence of his movement, the neatness and efficiency of his actions. This was part of what had drawn him to Pete. He was quietly capable. Never arrogant, never outspoken. He had a calmness Gil welcomed. A practicality. Neither of them wanted to be here, stuck in a war, but neither of them complained about it, either. They accepted it as their lot and got on with it.

Soon the meat was in the pan on the fire, the smell making Gil’s stomach rumble with hunger. It had been a while since they had fresh meat.

Pete reached into his saddle bag and pulled out a package, holding it out, slightly awkward, not quite meeting Gil’s gaze.

“Merry Christmas to you, too,” he said softly.

Gil took the package and turned it over in his hand. It was a pack of coffee, stamped with the Union Army symbol.

He grinned. “You…”

Pete shrugged, not stopping his work. “They got plenty.”

Gil just held the pack in his hand, and he knew he had a stupid grin on his face, but he didn’t care. That Pete had even thought about it, thought about something so perfect, yet so practical, and then faced the danger of stealing it, just summed the man up.

“Thank you,” he finally said.

Pete smiled, a hint of embarrassment. Then gestured to the pan. “Thank you, too.”

Gil found he wished he’d got Pete something more. Not just a meal for both of them, but something for him, something he’d thought about.

 

He’d kept back some of the desiccated vegetable ration they’d been given, so he added it to another small pan. It was horrible stuff, which even after boiling it back up, resembled no vegetables he’d ever seen. But it was a change from their usual hard tack and salted pork.

As Pete tended to the cooking he walked to the horses, murmuring to them gently, stroking their noses, checking them over for injury, running his hands over their legs, checking their hooves. Then pouring out some oats onto the snow for each of them, and adding a few slices of dried apple.

They didn’t know the significance of the day, obviously. And maybe he was going soft. His horse bumped it’s head against him, as if in acknowledgement, and he couldn’t help but smile.

 

They ate as the rest of the meat cooked. It felt special. Decadent. Fresh meat, tender on the bone. Held in their fingers, lips and hands greasy.

They could make it last a few days, in these temperatures. Long enough to get back to the nearest camp and make their reports. A little bit of luxury.

 

Then they sat, stomachs full, half asleep, Gil leaning back on Pete’s chest, sprawled out, boots near the fire. Blankets and his coat over them, trying to make a small cocoon of warmth for them both.

He imagined a fire in a hearth, maybe a garland on the mantle. Imagining the excitement of presents ripped open, paper torn, string cast aside.

Imagined the joy on the faces of his little girls, as they unwrapped their gifts.

 

He’d sent a letter, asking his wife to get Maggie a wooden horse. She’d been wanting one for a long time, although his wife protested it wasn’t a toy suitable for a young lady. And Gillian had wanted a new embroidery kit, with bright colours of thread, and she’d promised to send him something she’d sew.

He hoped they’d both be happy. A little part of him hoped they’d be missing him, some, too.

And a little part of him felt guilty, that he wasn’t missing them as much as he could.

 

Pete’s hand found its way past his jacket, fingers undoing his shirt buttons, tugging his henley free of his waist band.

Gil let him do it, scratching his fingernails down Pete’s thigh. Eventually tipping his head back, looking up at Pete’s face.

His eyes were closed, head resting back. Gil would almost think he was asleep, if it weren’t for the fingers stroking his belly, the ones exploring, holding him, stroking gently.

It was arousing, in a calm, sleepy sort of way. No urgency. No pressure.

That was another thing about this life. This life that had chosen him. Out here, with Pete, sex was for pleasure, for mutual benefit, a strengthening of an unspoken bond.

Pete’s hand found it’s way down to the front of his pants. Massaging the growing hardness. Coat and blankets pushed aside now, as they both warmed up.

Gil couldn’t help but let out a little groan of pleasure.

Pete’s touch chasing away the memories, the thoughts, of anywhere but here and now. Like leaves before wind.

Gil could almost forget there was a war on.

He looked down at himself. His uniform was in disarray now. Almost forget. But not quite.

There were plenty of soldiers who wished the war was over.

He wasn’t so sure he was one of them. Not anymore.

And that scared him.


End file.
